


Accidentally On Purpose

by merelypassingtime



Series: The Well of Lost Plots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ficlet, First Kiss, Fluff, I Blame Tumblr, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, John "Three Continents" Watson, M/M, Sherlock Speaks French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9079048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: John closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and mentally flipped on the charm that had served him so well with men and women across three continents. “Hey there, Gorgeous.” he said, flashing his most winning smile at the frightened man before him. And his most winning smile was amazingly winning indeed...Sherlock is injured so, of course, John has to help him any way he can.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecloseritgets_themoreitlookslikeapiano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecloseritgets_themoreitlookslikeapiano/gifts).



> Sorry for this a bit. It seemed like a good idea at the time.  
> Also sorry for any mistakes in the French bits. I speak no French whatsoever and everything here is 100% pure Google translate.

John was getting done explaining for the second time that day that, no antibiotics would not help a cold when he got the call from Greg.

“Sorry to interrupt your day John, but Sherlock's been injured.”

“Oh God, how? Is he is hospital?”

“No, no. It is nothing that bad. I am afraid that, er. Well, it seems Anderson sort of snapped finally and took a swing at Sherlock. He dodged it alright but managed to slip in a pool of blood and cracked his head on the pavement really well.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Refusing the hospital is he?”

“Um, yeah we think so. He is a bit... confused. Keeps yelling at us in French about abbes and Jeans every time we get near him. We have him cornered in an alley but he is jumping around and I doubt it is doing his head any good...”

John sighed. He thought about his boss and how he was already on thin ice. Then he thought about having to deal with another case of the sniffles while Sherlock was out there needing him. It wasn't even a choice really. He grabbed his coat and went to make his excuses.

When he got to the crime scene Greg greeted him before he was even out of the cab. “Thank God. He just called Sally something that unfortunately she understood enough of and now she is threatening to taser him.”

“Yeah, right. Lead on.”

He heard Sherlock before he caught sight of him, a loud stream of satin-smooth words being poured out in that beautiful, familiar baritone. When he did see the lanky detective he was crouched down behind a rubbish bin, yelling at Anderson and Dimmock. Blood had run down from a cut somewhere in his mass of chocolate curls and his eyes were wild and unfocused. He had hold of an old and very tatty broom and which he was using to menace the officers near him.

John sighed again and walked directly towards, saying, “Alright, I am here. Are you ready to head home so I can treat- Hey!” The last was because Sherlock had hit him forcefully in the arm with the broom.

And now Sherlock was yelling at him, “Prendre son pied! J'ai besoin Jean! Jean!”

“I am right here, wanker.” John muttered. He reconsidered his approach. Trying out a gentle voice he said, “Sherlock, Sherlock it is all fine. I am here, John is here and I am going to take care of you...” He tried another step forward, only to step immediately back to avoid another broom blow.

“Okay, so that isn't going to work,” John said to himself. He looked again at Sherlock, who was looking even closer to outright panic now, then took in the police all around them watching the spectacle with varying degrees of concern and amusement. He needed to calm Sherlock down, he needed to do it right now before things escalated regardless of their audience or the future repercussions. 

John closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and mentally flipped on the charm that had served him so well with men and women across three continents. “Hey there, Gorgeous.” he said, flashing his most winning smile at the frightened man before him. And his most winning smile was amazingly winning indeed. 

There was a moment of loaded silence during which one could almost hear every single person present collectively raising their opinions of John Watson's shagiblity. 

John had known from an early age that he was not the most striking or attractive of men but that his very air of being so painfully ordinary looking actually made him overwhelmingly adorable and cuddly. When he was on form and he set his mind to it there was not a human alive who could resist taking him home to snuggle. It was a power that after his wild days at uni he had sworn to use only for good. Or in case of emergencies like this one.

Sherlock stared at John, dazed by that smile and by the waves of relaxed confidence and concern radiating from the short man like heat from a bonfire. The broom lowered from suddenly slack fingers as Sherlock whispered, “Quelle?”

“Oh I think you heard me just fine, you lovely thing.” John said, taking a step forward. “God, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are? No?” John stopped a pace away from Sherlock, still smiling at him warmly. “ You should be told every day how amazing and brilliant and incredible you are. Maybe I can fix that...”

The sound of the broom clattering to the ground was surprisingly loud in the narrow alley as Sherlock took a step towards John, closing the distance, as mesmerized as a moth drawn to a flame.

John reached up and rested gentle fingers against Sherlock's cheek, “Hey there, love.”

Then Sherlock was kissing him, hot and insistent, his long arms wrapping around John in a vise-like grip pulling him into an embrace. After what could have been a second or a lifetime of kissing, Sherlock pulled back just a fraction to meet John's eyes. His own eyes seemed more clear and the doctor in John noted that his pupils were even if very dilated before John ran his hand from Sherlock's cheek to the back of his head, pulling him in for another kiss.

It was another immeasurable amount of time later that John realized that the noise around him wasn't just the blood rushing in his ears but the applause and catcalls of what sounded like most of New Scotland Yard. He ended the kiss and moved fractionally away from Sherlock, still keeping a hand in his hair. He was a bit embarrassed but really too happy to care much as he beamed at the equally flushed and pleased detective. “Come on, love.” he said quietly, “Let's get you home.”

Sherlock dropped a quick peck to his forehead before whispering in his ear, “Bien sur, Jean.”


End file.
